


You're Welcome

by MaggieMay



Series: Talkin' Bout a Revolution [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Author Has No Idea How US Politics Works, Capitol Hill, Congressman!Washington, Copious Finger Guns, Dirty French, Fluff, M/M, Married idiots, Mentions of War, Modern AU, Modern Political AU, Nicknames, Politics, Porn With Plot, Skype, Smut, Soldier!Lafayette, US Politics - Freeform, Unprotected Married Sex, Washington DC, author is going to hell, first names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 07:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12722118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieMay/pseuds/MaggieMay
Summary: "I did seven years in the Army, Angelica,” George reminds her. “I'm married to an active serviceman, and it's not like I'm POTUS. Why do I need a damn speechwriter?”“Madison says you can revisit that conversation once you stop making West Wing references, or throwing insults in the vague direction of Secretary Baker’s mother.”"Yeah, yeah, okay…”"And when you stop Mulligan from making actual finger guns at the Republicans over the NRA…”“That's Madison's problem,” George argues, incredulous. “He and TJ are department heads, for God’s sake; are you seriously telling me neither of them are equipped to handle Mulligan?”“Please.” Angelica doesn't quite snort, but it's a close thing. “You know as well as I do TJ’s been encouraging him.”**Modern political AU, in which George is a congressman, Gilbert is posted overseas, and everyone knows the one really running the show is Angelica.





	You're Welcome

George passes an eventful morning, if one particularly befitting that of a state senator: 33 emails from constituents, notes on the Virginia Civil Rights Restoration Act (draft 3; 75% complete), and a meeting with the Education Committee on new approaches to tackling transphobia in schools… all before 12 noon.

  
He steps out at 12:30, down to the sushi place on the corner, and wonders, as he's walking back to his office ten minutes later, bag in-hand, just when ‘lunch’ had begun to translate as ‘ _brief period in which to obtain food I will consume at my desk whilst answering emails_ ’, but is unable to arrive at a conclusion that doesn't depress him on a number of different levels.

  
Angelica Schuyler, chief of staff, is waiting for him when does eventually make it back. It's truly a testament to how she's really the one wearing the trousers, that she seems to have no qualms letting herself into his office while he's out and about. She stands as George enters, and bets blind she's been sitting on his desk, but has neither the inclination, nor energy, to chastise her. Not to mention he'd pay for it in some un-subtle way later, when they're all out for the traditional Friday night drinks. He's professionally browbeaten; what else is new in the Capitol?

  
“Can we eat and talk?” George asks her, placing his bento box down on the desk, and eye-rolling when she immediately starts unpacking it. “No, go ahead. I don't need lunch.”

  
“I do,” Angelica replies. “And yeah, it's going to have to be multitasking; I just came by to drop off this.” She holds a file aloft, flopping it down onto George's desk. “Notes on your address to the Veteran's Association annual fundraiser." Angelica flops a hefty file down on the desktop, and George's brows fly skywards. 

  
“Jesus. It was half that size when I sent it out.”

  
“Madison was thorough,” says Angelica, mildly.

  
“I did seven years in the Army, Angelica,” George reminds her. “I'm married to an active serviceman, and it's not like I'm POTUS. Why do I need a damn speechwriter?”

  
“Madison says you can revisit that conversation once you stop making West Wing references, or throwing insults in the vague direction of Secretary Baker’s mother.”

  
“Yeah, yeah, okay…”

  
“And when you stop Mulligan from making actual finger guns at the Republicans over the NRA…”

  
“That's Madison's problem,” George argues, incredulous. “He and TJ are department heads, for God’s sake; are you seriously telling me neither of them are equipped to handle Mulligan?”

  
“Please.” Angelica doesn't quite snort, but it's a close thing. “You know as well as I do TJ’s been encouraging him.”

  
“Of course he has.” George is not above burying his face in his hands in front of one of his oldest friends, but they do have to try and maintain at least some facade of professionalism on the clock. He flips a corner of the file. His speech is meticulously covered in Madison's favourite red biro, spread like a disdainful rash across the page. He’ll get to making edits later, and get back more of the same. “Tell Madison I'll deal with it,” George tells Angelica. “Was there anything else?”

  
“I've sent Burr up the hill to push the Tuition bill while you prep for the McConnell meeting,” Angelica says.

  
“Burr?” George queries, surprised.

  
“You disagree?”

  
“No, no,” George backpedals. “Just an interesting choice.”

  
“Burr is pretty unshakable, George,” Angelica replies. “And has by far the best rapport with grass roots on the Tuition issue.”

  
George nods. “Then I'll defer to your judgement.”

  
He gets up, snags a final nigiri from the box, and is halfway to the trash can when the melody of an incoming Skype call bursts forth from his computer screen.

  
“See who that is, will you?” Even from less than a meter away, George somehow still manages to miss the trash, and huffs irritably, bending at the waist to try again as Angelica slides ‘round the desk to get a look at the computer.

  
“Incoming call.” George hears the suppressed smile in her voice, way before he turns. “One Gilbert du Motier.” 

George makes a sound that's half surprise, half an attempt to swallow his mouthful of sushi without choking half to death in the process.

  
“Give us a minute, would you?”

  
“Sure.” Angelica heads for the door, but looks back, after a beat. “You really have your husband saved to contacts under his full name?”

  
“Angelica.”

  
“I'm going!” She makes it half way out the door this time. “By the way, TJ’s on his way up; you've probably got around 7 minutes.”

  
“Goddamit, Ang—”

“Give Gilbert my love!” She slams the door, and George has to cut his Rage Aneurism™ short in order to pick up the call before the connection drops.

  
Mischievous dark eyes swim into view before him, brows knitting suspiciously down the middle as the connection stabilises.  
“You,” Gilbert says, by way of greeting, “are not supposed to be eating sushi.”

  
George snorts, derisively. “Husband mine. Dearly treasured love of my life. How could you possibly know I've been eating sushi?”

  
“Pah!” George is certain, nearly 21 years after they met, his husband never sounds more French than when he's pissed off. “You always leave you wasabi on the desk. It is like you _want_ to be caught.”

  
“You worry too much.”

  
“Yes,” Gilbert agrees. “Because I enjoy the thought of you alive and well, _Georges_ , not eating yourself to an early grave that smells of fishes and poor choice-making.”

  
“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘cholesterol’, ‘fatty acids’, or ‘one in four Americans,’” says George, “I swear to God, I'm divorcing you.”

  
“You think I am scared?” Gilbert asks. “I think you would not last a week, no?”

  
“No,” George concedes. And then: “ _Ton accent est de retour_.” 

“ _Et le vôtre est toujours terrible_.”

They grin at each other down the line, a pair of perfect idiots.

  
“Hi,” George says.

  
“Hello, my love.”

  
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  
“There must be a reason?” Gilbert asks, but fondly. They've had decades to navigate George's pathological efficiency, to the detriment of anything resembling romantic spontaneity. George has learned to curb it as much as Gilbert has learned to accept it, and somehow, some way, it works.

  
“Just wasn't expecting to hear from you after hours.”

  
“It is 9pm in Baghdad, _Georges_ ,” Gilbert says. “I am not so easily tired.” He betrays himself seconds later with a stifled yawn George politely ignores. “How is my favourite city?”

  
“I'm nowhere near Bourges,” says George, dryly, and Gilbert grins. His eyes flash, wicked and witty, and God, George can't believe he's gone without seeing them in person for the four months since he waved Gilbert away on yet another tour. It's a practiced process now, but the hollow he leaves always feels brand new; 4-6 months running on empty, every damn time.

  
“ _D’accord_ ,” Gilbert says. “Then how is my second favourite city?”

  
“Keeping me on my toes,” George tells him. And then, because it's Gilbert, and George can _actually_ whine to him without stabbing himself in the foot: “Madison firestormed my Vet’s address.”

  
“Ah.” Gilbert sniffs, one corner of his mouth curling. “He is still hoarding the paperclips?”

  
“It was staples,” George corrects. “And no.” A pause. “Angelica cleaned him out.”

  
Gilbert tosses back his head and laughs, one curl springing free at his temple. George’s fingers ache to be able to tuck it back behind his ear. “That woman, she is a saint.” He tilts his chin, teasingly, upwards. “When I am home again, I think I shall leave you for her.” 

  
“I think,” George says, “you would not last a week.”

  
Gilbert laughs his agreement, and a comfortable, contemplative silence falls for several seconds. There's never enough time to look at him, George thinks. To look without touching or talking, and to just be thankful. To just be.

  
“I love it when you say that,” George confides.

  
“ _Quoi_?” 

“‘Home,’” George tells him, and the smile spreads like candlelight, soft and warm, across Gilbert’s features.

  
“It is wherever you are, my love.”

  
“Cliché,” George tells him. “You're ruining my masterful impression of a person who has feelings. With clichés.”

  
“It was indeed a triumphant performance,” Gilbert says. “But perhaps I could have my husband back now?”

  
“You may,” George concedes, “For…” He glances, askance, at his watch. “…three minutes, before TJ comes by to ruin my day instead of Madison's.”

  
“I received his e-vite to an office party I will not be home to attend.” Gilbert smirked, as George's brows drew down into a frown. “And which you apparently knew nothing about.”

  
“Nope. Don't know, don't want to know,” George said. “Don't care, either, as long as he leaves the damn copier alone this time, and doesn't make it with another lobbyist. Yeah, you may well laugh…” Gilbert’s laughter always starts from his eyes, and works down. It's worked down far enough now that George could’ve counted his teeth. “…it was a goddamn PR nightmare. Madison almost cried.”

  
The connection crackles, Gilbert’s face, and his reply, blurring into static, and when it strengthens out again, Gilbert is looking at him questioningly.

  
“What? I lost you.”

  
“I said, will you be attending drinks tonight?”

  
“Yeah, probably,” George says. “Keeps the soul humble, and the mind gin-soaked.” He leaps upon the natural pause in conversation to ask, precisely-worded, their usual exchange. “Where were you today?”

  
Experience, and the knowing of each other, has taught them not to discuss Gilbert’s work, excepting emergencies, until they are actually together. Gilbert cannot afford to confront what he sees far too often in front of the men and women he commands, kids, most of them, looking to their Commandant for the strength to deal with the same shit themselves. For his part, George has spent too many nights at the bottom of a bottle, drinking selfishly through a pain that's not his own, but would give anything to shoulder.

  
Relief washes over him, to see Gilbert smile.

  
“It was a good day,” Gilbert tells him. “Long, and tiring, but I am well.”

  
George nods. “Good.” He glances at his desk calendar, which sports a bright red circle wrapped around December 22 — the date of Gilbert’s next leave. “I'm counting the days.”

  
“Me too.”

  
It's the natural place for a goodbye; George hates how he's come to see their rationed time as a gift, but knows the alternative doesn't bear thinking on.

  
“Stay safe,” he tells Gilbert. “I love you.”

  
“And I, you,” Gilbert replies. His smile reminds George of their wedding day —simultaneously soft and strong, an image he’ll hold onto.

  
When the connection drops, George can't rationalize how empty the room suddenly feels with the fact there was never really anyone there in the first place.

  
The silent aftermath lasts all of fifteen seconds; Thomas Jefferson, communications secretary and Liability, knocks and throws open George's door in the same instant, and the peace shatters around George like a linebacker forced through a pane of glass.

  
“Boss, I got one question for you.” TJ’s drawl is twice as abrasive, George thinks, when he's on the wrong side of overexcited. “Are you ready to have your mind blown wide open?”

  
“Pass me the gun,” says George, “and we’ll find out.”

**

George leaves Schuyler’s (owned by Peggy; the youngest of Angelica’s sisters) at 9, and gets straight into a cab.  
He'd left the rest of the post-work gang behind: TJ; Angelica; her middle sister, Eliza; TJ’s protégée, Hercules Mulligan; admin assistant, John Laurens; and their newest intern — an ever-peppy recent-grad by name of Alex, who'd spent much of the evening avoiding the swing on TJ’s cocktail arm, every time he gesticulated with martini in-hand, and the rest making unsubtle moon-eyes at one side of Eliza Schuyler’s face.

  
George is tired, irritable, and above all, hungry. He resists the urge to have the cab stop at Panda Express, even if the fact he's planning on calling for takeout once he's home makes the self-denial seem utterly redundant.

  
Home is a modest townhouse in Arlington, a mile or so shy of the Potomac, that always feels far too large for George when he's on his own. Gilbert has a habit of filling, not just a room, but entire buildings with a combination of aristocratic charisma, military presence, and sheer flamboyance George has seldom seen fail. And hey, George himself is no slouch; he's a congressman, midway through his second term, and it's been his understanding that universally unlikeable folks don't usually do too well in politics. Gilbert, though… even if George did not love the man more than his own life is worth, he's certain he'd run through miles of darkness, just to borrow a little bit of the light that comes off his husband.

  
George pays the cab driver, and watches the car retreat to the end of the road as he searches pockets for his keys. He doesn't notice, until twenty seconds later, when he looks up at the window:

  
The living room light is on. He's left it on all damn day.

  
Mentally cursing himself for the idiot he's always suspected he is, George thinks on the fact he's going to have to give at least two environmental lobbyists an audience tomorrow to repay his debt to Mother Earth, as he slides his keys into the lock… and finds the deadbolt already pushed back.

  
“Son of a bitch.” Apparently he's given up on securing his home now too as well as leaving the light on, like a hummingbird feeder for every looter this side of the cemetery.

  
He’ll wonder later why the truth didn't occur to him sooner, but for now at least, the spiral of self-deprecation reigns supreme. He gets all the way into the house, in fact, before his nose catches up with the unlocked door and illuminated living room, but when it does, it's unmistakable: someone is cooking.

  
“Hello?”

  
George has no idea, truly, why he decides to attend to the living room light before he checks out the kitchen, but he ducks inside the door frame to snag the light switch, and that's when he sees what's waiting for him: low lighting, an open bottle of wine, gentle piano music…

  
And one husband.

  
Gilbert turns slowly, hair pushed back from his face, in a soft shirt, and with softer eyes.

  
“ _Bonsoir, mon coeur_ ,” he says, gently, and George is glad for the doorframe, for all he suddenly needs it to stand. It's one thing to go to the airport; to prepare, and count the days, and work himself up into a dizzy, nauseous anticipation of _this exact_ moment. But to have it sprung upon him… George doesn't know which way the floor is anymore, or how to make his legs move, or his mouth work, and Gilbert has never surprised him like this, except for the way he has every damn day since they fell in love, or the way he does now, by doing exactly what George cannot, in crossing the living room towards him.  
Gilbert reaches out for him, and George does the only thing he can do: he buries his face against his husband’s neck, and does his damndest not to cry.

  
A running joke amongst their friends is that Gilbert has twice the emotional availability of his husband, and maybe half the grip on it. George doesn't know how long they stand there, wrapped in each other; just that when one or other of them pulls back, to press desperate lips together, there isn't a dry eye between them.

  
“How?” George rasps eventually, when he's got his forehead pressed hard against Gilbert’s, and remembers, subsequently, how to use words.

  
“I flew in last night,” Gilbert murmurs against his temple. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  
George’s laugh is a high, shocked thing, torn from his throat. “Please tell me you weren't camped out in the spare room…”

  
“No,” says Gilbert, with a (slightly damp) laugh of his own. “No, Angelica, she gave me her couch.”

  
“Angelica knew?” George demands; his second shock of the evening.

  
“ _C’est vrai,_ she did,” Gilbert replies, sounding, George thinks, entirely too pleased with himself. “And TJ, he knew also.”

  
“ _What_?”

  
“That Herculés, he is funny, _non_?”

  
“You have got,” says George, with feeling, “to be fucking kidding me.”

 

**

They've finished dinner, and the wine, and George is on his back on the bed — their bed — with Gilbert spread out on top of him.

  
Dinner gave them the time they needed to talk. George fed himself one-handed, stroked Gilbert's wrist with the other, and continued doing so, long after the food had run out, and there was suddenly nothing left to say.

  
There'd been no stopping it then. George is 78% sure his shirt is somewhere on the stairs with half the buttons torn off, but Gilbert is licking a hungry stripe from his jaw to that spot behind his ear, and it's getting harder and harder to focus on anything else.

  
“Come here,” George murmurs, fingers twisting, tugging Gilbert up by the roots of his hair, and sliding his tongue straight between eager lips. “Come here. I wanna see you.”

  
Gilbert, curls falling forward, back arching over George's hips, smiles through a curtain of hair, against George's mouth. His expression is wicked, full of everything George has missed so much he could hardly stand it, and George can see Gilbert, and he can feel him, but he still can't believe he's here; that he gets to have this, and have it now, with nothing left between them save for the time it'll take to get Gilbert exactly where he wants him.

  
Gilbert, still dressed from the waist-down, toes off his socks, and in doing so, rolls his denim-clad crotch hard against George’s own. George tosses his head on a hiss that escapes from between clenched teeth, and holds Gilbert’s lips as he tears into his husband’s jeans.

  
“Patience,” Gilbert says, in a tone which says, rather, that he has no intention of dragging this out longer than either of them can stand. It's still too raw between them, too soon after their reunion to be anything other than desperate for each other, and George is honestly trying his best not to cling. Gilbert presses their foreheads, running a full palm down George's neck, over his ribcage, and down to the waistband of his shorts. “I am right here.”

  
“I know,” George whispers back, and there's no one else in the world who gets to see this. He who has so many friends, to be known so little, by all but this man, who has held the secret of him so carefully for 20 years.

  
Gilbert keeps their foreheads pressed, their lips close, as he pushes his jeans and shorts down in one motion, and then moves to make short work of George's. With nothing separating them now, George lets his thighs shift, creating a space with his husband slides straight into.

  
They're both hard, achingly so, and leaking steadily between their stomachs. George shifts again; gets his reward when he's able to extract a hand and wrap a full palm around them both, stroking hard downwards.

  
The reaction is instant, and exactly what he's been craving. Gilbert snaps forwards at the hips, hand snatching at George's hair, and a short gasp escaping.

  
“Ah. _Georges_ …”

  
“Yeah,” George breathes back. “Like that?”

  
“Ye — _oui_ …” Gilbert tilts his hips, shifting them impossibly closer, rubbing hard up against each other within the tight ring of George's palm. “ _Exactament comme ça_ …”

George strokes them in time with the surging of their hips, until Gilbert is moaning in earnest: gorgeous, bitten-off sounds cresting above the intimate tone they've established, and George reaches up with a spare hand, brushing his husband’s hair off his face, and swallowing every moan he can catch with lips and teeth and tongue.

  
“ _Georges_ ,” Gilbert murmurs again, nipping against his lip until it's full and red between his teeth. “ _Mon_ … Georges, I need…”

  
“Yeah,” George cuts him off, slowing his hand only as long as it takes to straighten his legs back out; to haul Gilbert to his knees on the bed, and wrap himself back around his husband, chest-to-chest. “Anything, anything you want, just… fuck, Gil, _please_.”

  
Gilbert’s reply is a flurry of French not even 20 years and regular practice can help George decipher in full. He hauls George in with two palms around his ass, spreading George's thighs around his hips and burying his face in his husband's neck, licking and biting at the strong tendon as he throws a shaking left hand out to the nightstand.

  
They've not used condoms in years, but George sends up a brief, grateful prayer for the fact he's not run all the way through their supply of lube in the few months he's been alone, thinking of Gilbert's hands on him exactly the way they are now, mapping a fierce path down his spine, palms splayed wide and nails digging deep.

  
George takes the first finger with a sound Gilbert kisses away from him, murmuring soothing words against his temple George suspects are only partly to do with the act at-hand.

  
Gilbert opens him slowly, free hand playing up and down George's jaw, and fingers hooking, just right, inside him. By the time they make it to three, George is gasping, trembling, so overwhelmed with sensation that the sound he lets out when Gilbert slides his fingers free could only accurately be described as a whimper.

  
“Come on,” George whispers, only barely audible over the sound of heaving breath and shared, hammering heartbeats. “Don't make me wait.”

  
“Never,” Gilbert breathes back.

  
He's in him within seconds, thrusting into tight heat, and the sound it shocks out of George is exactly that — shocked out, torn forth, stretched out until he's fully seated in Gilbert’s lap, and around his cock.

  
“ _Georges_ …” Gilbert sounds _wrecked_ , barely together, _so_ complete, it might just break him apart. “ _Tu te sens si bien. Toujours, tellement bien pour moi_ …”

  
They take up a rhythm on their knees, George's hips guiding them in deep, brutal downward thrusts, whilst Gilbert's hands and strong forearms provide the leverage they need to build to something worth the wait.

  
Gilbert — pupils blown wide, curls plastered, sweat-soaked, to his forehead — tilts George backwards, hugging him closer with one arm around the waist, and George is briefly disquieted, until Gilbert thrusts back in and the resultant stroke against his prostate forces a cry from his chest.

  
Gilbert’s answering grin is a wild, desperate thing George would harness, if he could.

  
When he feels the peak approaching, George doesn't fight it; just claws at his husband's shoulders, stuttering out a warning, as Gilbert thrusts into him with finality, and stays there, pushing out a rhythm that's more of a filthy grind than anything else, hard up against George's prostate.

  
It doesn't take much, maybe ten seconds, and George is fucking gone, shuddering through a vocal climax he muffles against Gilbert’s shoulder, shuddering and spent in his husband's lap.

  
Their rhythm falters as George goes boneless atop him, flopping forwards over Gilbert's shoulder and breathing hard against his neck.

  
“Ah, fuck,” George croaks out, verbose in a way he rarely is unless post-coital. “Fuck, you beautiful, brilliant man…”

  
“ _Je t’aime_ ,” Gilbert says on a moan that intensifies, shifts in pitch, as George turns the edge of teeth against his neck. “I do, I do, oh _Georges_ , fuck…”

  
“Move,” George tells him, sucking hard at Gilbert's neck, tilting his hips and his spent cock into the mess his pleasure has made of both their abdomens. Gilbert pounds into him relentlessly, George's thighs spread obscenely wide around his hips, and one of George's hands tangled in his hair.

  
When his rhythm begins to falter, when his jaw drops low and stutters like he's trying to reach for something, George bends himself over his husband, to catch his two hands around Gilbert’s neck, and croon softly against his ear.

  
“Do it, sweetheart. Let go.”

  
Gilbert stiffens, shudders as he starts to come, and though the words his climax tugs free of him are in two languages, the only thing George manages to pull out is how both of them are shaped desperately around his own name.

**

Later, when Gilbert is smiling and sleepy against the pillows, George retrieves his cellphone from the kitchen, and fires off a brief message to his team.

 

**From: Washington, George <george.washington@mail.house.gov>  
To: Schuyler, Angelica <angelica.schuyler@mail.house.gov>; Jefferson, Thomas <thomas.jefferson@mail.house.gov> ; Mulligan, Hercules <hercules.mulligan@mail.house.gov>**

Bastards.

 

He snags two glasses, and another bottle of wine from the fridge. Then he picks up his cell once more, and adds one more message to the outgoing.

 

**From: Washington, George <george.washington@mail.house.gov>  
To: Schuyler, Angelica <angelica.schuyler@mail.house.gov**>

Thank you.

 

**

 

The next day, TJ sets the copier on fire, and George realises that business has, well and truly, continued as normal.

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I was going to Hell anyway. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the read! Just a few context notes... there is a reason all our favorite folks are able to socialise over drinks without issue -- Alex putting Thomas's head through a tabletop, for example -- and that, primarily, is because that animosity hasn't chronologically sprung up yet. Hell, maybe it never will; an AU is an AU, after all. 
> 
> For the detail-oriented amongst you beauties: Congressman George, in this incarnation, is 45 -- 6 years older than his husband, whom he met on his way out of the military, just as Gilbert was heading in. Balls, I have many headcanons for this setup. It's going to result in many sequels. The point I'm trying to make, for anyone who actually cares, is the age gap is still there... it's just smaller than it might be. 
> 
> Translations are as follows. I am not a French speaker (since I don't believe being able to pronounce all the names of Les Amis de l'ABC counts), so any errors will be due to a breakdown in my working relationship with Google Translate. 
> 
> Ton accent est de retour -- Your accent is back 
> 
> Et le vôtre est toujours terrible -- And yours is still terrible 
> 
> D'Accord -- Okay 
> 
> Quoi? -- What? 
> 
> Commandant -- French Army equivalent of Major, or similar, in English-speaking military terms.
> 
> Bonsoir, mon coeur -- Good evening, my heart (literal translation; I believe this is a fairly general French term of endearment, if a somewhat 'extra' one. Laff is extra? Who knew?) 
> 
> C’est vrai -- It's true 
> 
> Non -- No
> 
> Oui -- Yes 
> 
> Exactament comme ça -- Exactly like that 
> 
> Mon -- My 
> 
> Tu te sens si bien. Toujours, tellement bien pour moi -- You feel so good. Always, so good for me. 
> 
> Je t’aime -- I love you 
> 
>  
> 
> Peace ya'll


End file.
